


Life's a bitch, and then you die...

by nnq



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Cigarettes, Cocaine, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Goth Keith (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Marijuana, Punk Lance (Voltron), Recreational Drug Use, Stimulants, Trans Male Lance (Voltron), Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-10-17 09:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnq/pseuds/nnq
Summary: ...so fuck it all, and let's get high.





	Life's a bitch, and then you die...

**Author's Note:**

> ah, hi.
> 
> i originally wanted this to be a oneshot, but my dumbass self didn't take into consideration that for the past 3 months ive been busting my ass with school and completely ignoring all my fics, so I had to post it much more cut down than I would have wanted. oh well! 
> 
> i don't think its necessary to say this but obviously the story is centered around drug abuse, moreso Lance and his emotions regarding it. i'm not planning to make klance very significant in the story, but if you're a lance stan, i highly recommend u bookmark this cause u already KNOW im boutta go all out on making lance as edgy and sexy as possible. so <3
> 
> thanks for reading! or not. i mean, you got this far, right?

If any one of his teammates asked Lance what he missed the most about Earth, He'd probably say something like his family, or the food, or Cuba's sparkling waters. He'd have on an incredibly fond look as he says such, and he'd stare out into nothingness, as if he was imagining it at that very moment, lost into daydreams of beaches and brothers and sisters, before he jolts back into reality, and his expression dims, only by a little bit.

Well, that was a fucking lie.

To be honest, he misses cigarettes more than anything in the fucking world. And he's 2 years clean.

Let him explain.

See, of _course_ he misses his family, and the food, and the ocean, but cigarettes have a little hidey hole in his heart; one he's locked away and tried to forget, if only for his own health. It's more than just a cigarette, to him. It consistently was a 5-minute break from the rest of the world; the most reliable thing on the entire fucking planet. It didn't matter whether you were crying in the school bathroom, or climbing out of your bedroom window at 2 A.M. after a panic attack, or you're desperately trying to pick up the pieces of your heart, of yourself; You go outside, you light it up, and suddenly, for those silent 5 minutes, your brain is emptied out, with your thoughts falling on your lap, and your lungs full of smoke. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is. All is gray, and cloudy, and at peace, even if it's storming beyond the porch. Even if the snow kisses the edges of your blanket curled around your legs on the rocking chair. Even if the smoke hits your face and makes you sweat in the scalding, judging sun. Everything just calms the fuck down, just for a minute.

Lance knows he's being too nostalgic over something that was only a few years away from killing him and Rachel, but it's hard not to, thinking back to all the days when he and his sister would take their chore money down to the gas station and get the nice man chewing tobacco outside to get a pack for the both to them. They would fumble with their lighters at first, eyes sharp and wide at the rush of nicotine, and the thrill of getting caught, darting down dark streets and sneaking out at night to sit at the edge of the boardwalk, illuminated only by the silver moon and the ends of their cancer-sticks, hot and crumbling. And they would savor those quiet moments; thighs barely brushing against one another, sandy feet playing footsie lazily, and the breeze blowing their breaths down the street, away from them, and away from the moon.

They were only 12. 

At the back of their minds, they knew they were burning their tails with puffs; the orange, hot ashes drifting onto their toes, engulfing them from the feet up. At first it just burned, burned their lungs, burned the clothes that they wore with the scent of tar, burned fond memories into their brain while they huffed fire for fun, but as they got older, it wasn't just burns anymore. Their lungs rotted, and so did their reliability; they walked further down the boardwalk with every year, let the embers guide them to darker beaches, with stronger waves, and they let them. They followed in bare feet and rolled up jeans, laughing if only to disguise the silence that surrounded them, swallowing everything whole. Not because they hated themselves, but because they didn't care. Suddenly, it was less about getting a break from life. It was breaking away, to get to their life. The place where they could cry and curl their hands into fists, cursing the world and cursing their heads for things they can't control. And ever the traitor, the smoke wiped away their tears, and soothed their cracking palms, not hushing them with words, but with quiet.

There were signs.

Constant colds. Bags under their eyes. Jokes weren't told in fear of coughing fits. It was when Rachel came down with bronchitis that they both had to face the facts, because no one was going to make them face it anyways.

They were only 15. He remembers the moment with clarity: It was a week and half before Christmas, and Rachel knelt on Lance's bed in those short-shorts that Mama absolutely despised, and a tie-dye halter top; blues, whites, and oranges swirling around with every breath, her long, brown hair pulled up into a messy bun, and her eyes stormy and wild. Lance sat cross legged, trying to ignore the stinging on his right ear from the ear piercing he did on himself 3 days before, his neck still stained from the black hair dye he reapplied a week ago. He remembers, thumbing the lighter in his hands, glancing into the mirror and wondering when he started to actually like the way he looked.

**"It isn't just cause of this. I'm not afraid to die." Rachel spoke, plainly, but the tremor could be heard in her voice. **

**"Yeah, I think so too." **

**Lance didn't bring up the shake in her words. **

**Rachel licked her bottom lip, fingers only a millimeter away from grazing her phone screen, as if she was pondering how to respond to a message. Her toes curled, and when she looked up to look at her brother, Lance was hit with just how young she looked. **

**"Guess we're playing the waiting game now, huh?" She smiled, a real genuine smile, even with the teasing tone in her voice suggesting otherwise, and Lance feels his world crashing down, if only for a minute.**

**"Yeah, I guess we are."**

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wonders if she's still playing the game, now that Lance is gone. He isn't sure what he'd prefer.

It's agony to be apart from her. They'd done everything together; schoolwork, and applications, and double dates, and drugs. It was well known in school that despite their physical differences, if Rachel was doing something, Lance would be right behind her, and vice versa. It wasn't so much that they were alike, more like, they enjoyed one another's company so much. They weren't just siblings, they were best friends; a rare thing to observe in large families. Rachel, despite her appearance, was actually quite the introvert. She walked the halls with her head up high, eyes sharp, and her sneakers silent as she made her way to wherever she needed to be. An +A student who spent most of her free time either working or playing the multiple sports she enlisted in. A team player who never really stuck around; too focused and too dangerous for people to approach. Some days she wore jerseys and sneakers. Other days she wore skirts and button-ups, with bright eyeshadow smeared on the lid. She was an enigma; unpredictable, violent, but beautiful, all in one. Lance, on the other hand, was quite extroverted, at least to a point. He was handsy, and loud, and held all the energy out of the twins. He met Rachel's deadpan sarcasm with equally dark humor, and talked enough to fulfill the set minimum of social interaction for the day for both of them. Like Rachel, he was nothing less than a +A student, but the rest of his time was spent skipping town and staying out all night, dark brown hair curling at his nape and his skin taut around the metal bar proudly puncturing the bridge of his nose, complimenting the rest of the metal embedded in his skin. In the morning, he would come home; the black pencil around his eyes smudged on his bottom lid, and his lips puffy and bruised, stretched into a blinding smile, and Rachel would only wrap her arms around him, teasing him about god knows what he did the late hours of the night before. Lance remembers her soft, chipped nails digging into the scratchy material of his sweatshirt, her nose digging into his shoulder, and no matter the situation, no matter how bad the comedown was just hours before, when she hugged him, it was the very same sensation of those cigarettes they shared years before: for a moment, just a moment, nothing mattered, except the light, floating feeling in his chest, without the burn, without the disease, without the tar coating his lungs.

But looking back on it, millions of light-years away, Lance sits in the alien castle he now calls home, and wonders if it really was as risk free as he assumed. His chest aches, and his fingers are restless, tapping along his thigh with fleeting pinpricks of pain as he presses his nail as hard as he can against it. He wonders if it was really worth it; leaving his other half back on earth, and becoming some kind of holy savior for the entirety of the universe, as if his body hasn't already started rotting from the inside out, and his brain is running on fumes; trying desperately to grasp on any remnant of prescriptive pills and second-hand smoke still floating around in his lungs, to no avail. He wonders if he should have applied for Military Piloting, if only to spend his last few days next to Rachel, who had nearly gotten kicked out of said program, all for Lance. He wonders if he hasn't taken his piercings out and covered his tattoos, if he would have been rejected for the garrison, and he would still be at home, bitching to Rachel on the phone about his ex-boyfriend refusing to give his Metallica shirt back, and how boring it was without her. She would smile, and Lance would be able to hear it in her words, as she said 'You really need to have higher standards, you know. Not everyone is as level-headed as us.'

But he's not. He's in this boring ass castle, surrounded by boring ass people, fighting a boring ass war with a slightly less boring lion, and if he thought he was reasonable, his teammates must be world-class compromisers. At least most of them are pretending they have their life together, while Lance can hardly hide the fact that he's falling to pieces. He's been snapping at the rest of the team left and right, jaw clenched and muscles tight with stress, and every time they have to get in a battle, he's switching lightning fast between concentrating on keeping his curious teammates the fuck out of his head and releasing as much pent up anger on the Galra cruisers as he possibly can with Blue. Its gotten to the point where he just prefers to stay in his room, if only to avoid seeing the hurt look on Keith's face when Lance says something just a smidgen across the line, or the concern on Allura's face when he has to use the healing pod again for the 4th time this week, solely out of his recklessness. 

It's not that Lance can't get them, its just he doesn't even know where to start looking. Voltron goes wherever Voltron is needed, and as a result, they jump from place to place every other day; Fight, Celebrate, Sleep, Repeat. There's no time to go wandering through planets' markets, asking double-meaning questions, exploring every dead-end, poking around for something, anything that does more than make you sick and taste bad. (Lance was never a fan of alcohol, but when Coran offered them all 'nunville' after saving another planet, Lance had nearly jumped upon the opportunity, only to spend the next hour washing his mouth out with green goo, trying to keep the acrid liquid down. It wasn't until several hours later that Lance would finally give up any hope of him getting wasted). So Lance coped, bitched, and moaned about nothing in particular, while daydreaming about the days he and Veronica would climb up onto the roof and do dabs until they could hardly move. The worst part? He couldn't say anything to _anyone_. That conversation would almost definitely not go well with Coran, who would be sure to tell Allura in a heartbeat, and even if he had any chance with the locals, his reputation as Paladin would be on the line. There wasn't a single good way to go about it, so Lance just had to suck it up, and deal with the staggering effects of withdrawal, alone.

_You should be grateful_, his mind chimes, _Now, you don't have a choice whether or not you want to die a druggie._ And Lance knows that it's right, and deep down, this is an opportunity for change, of fucking _course_ he should take advantage of it, but it's just _so hard_. His brain tells him no, but his heart tells him yes, along with the rest of his body, and no matter how many times Lance goes over the pros and cons, he still doesn't know whether this whole involuntary rehab shit is a good thing or not, because, sure, he's not doing drugs, but he's fucking _miserable___

_ __ _

"And I'm stuck looking like a dweeb." Lance murmured, only garbed in his sleep shorts, running his fingers in his faded, light-brown hair and down his face, thumbing where his lip ring used to be with a sense of loss. He was glad he decided to keep his tongue piercing despite the Garrison's strict body-modification rule, as he was confident it would be less-than convenient to prove it was there, much less get a glimpse of it, and his tattoos only had to suffer being covered up in class. He was incredibly fond of them all, especially the very first one he got; a vividly colored bisexual flag on his upper arm, big enough to almost wrap around its sides, and bright enough to be seen even in the dim lights of the club. On his opposite forearm, a bright blue feather was wrapped around his wrist, the writing below it still crisp and tight:_"Birds of a feather..."_ it read, and Lance can almost imagine Rachel's arm pressed to his, matching feather and finishing words "_...flock together._ mimicking his own. The rest of them are scattered all over his body: An iridescent fish swimming up his right calf, the constellation of Leo on his left shoulder, lines in dark blue with white stars, a personal favorite on his upper back: _"Punk won't die, but you will."_ in neat, tidy writing, all Rachel's doing, the dark red rose on his right hip, and his small blue-pink butterfly near his collarbone... he all adored them. Every single one made him feel a little bit more comfortable with his appearance, a little more in tune with his body, knowing that he, ultimately, had the power to change it.

You know. Unless you're stuck out in the middle of space, stuck in a ship with a bunch of people who would probably throw him out of the castleship if he showed back up after a mission with blue hair and several new chunks of steel lodged in his skin (Whenever he got back to earth, he was TOTALLY gonna deck himself out in all blue. He really wants to flex the fact that a giant alien space lion chose him to pilot her, especially to Veronica.) Oh, and you physically ache from the absence of drugs.

Other than that, life was pretty great.

Lance squinted at the bright-green hologram next to his bed across the room, his contacts not on yet, blearily making out '9:36' and internally, he groans. A part of him hopes that the team will have already left the dining room when he eventually makes his way there, but nevertheless, he steps into his bathroom, scowling at his reflection as he makes quick work of the stubble developing on his face, popping on his bright blue contacts and blinking at his reflection a few times to get adjusted to the change in vision. With a quick ruffle of his hair, and a dollop of some sweet-smelling serum on his skin, he exits into his bedroom, only pausing for a moment before picking up the roll of wrap off his dresser, lifting his leg and getting to work.

Back in the garrison, despite his uniform's modest nature, to say Lance was paranoid about people seeing his tattoos was an understatement. Not only that, but earlier in his youth, there was a point in time where Lance was in a _very_ bad place, and no matter how many blemish-removing and healing creams he bought, nothing would fully diminish the large, pink scars scattered about his body, and despite Rachel's insistence that nobody would care, Lance just- didn't want to see them, much less have other people see them. He'd considered getting more tattoos to cover them up, but even if he did, the raised skin made it obvious what laid underneath to anyone looking for it. After hours of research online, he'd decided it'd just be easier to invest in a few rolls of sports wrap and wrap his arms and legs whenever he planned to go anywhere. Sure, it took up time and money, but for Lance, that was a small price to pay for staying in the garrison. At first, people stared at the wraps whenever his sleeves accidentally rolled up, or he was re-tying his boots; pushing his pant-sleeve up ever so slightly to get to his laces, but after a few times of Lance claiming his ankles and wrists easily locked up, it was almost universally accepted by his classmates that it was just one of Lance's 'quirks', much to his relief. Of course, you would think that excuse wouldn't exactly hold up in space, where the healing pods almost automatically displayed all of your past injuries and ailments, but Lance had been quick to pull Coran aside and explain his scars and discomfort involving them before he had the chance to be blown to bits and shoved in. Thankfully, he had understood, and disabled any display of previous scars and body disfigurements for him, and Lance could breathe easy knowing his web of lies was no longer at risk of being unraveled and torn to pieces.

Lance's repetition in his process previously made the whole ordeal only take moments, and he critically eyed his body; all his navy bandages neat and secure along his calves and arms, his tight undershirt covering any indents of the scars along his chest, not to mention his piercings, his shorts giving his hips little to none form or shape, and with that, he pulled on his signature shirt and jeans; tying up his shoes firmly and throwing on his jacket with a rush of nostalgia, remembering how both of his sisters owned one identical to his own. His long, tan fingers trail over it's various patches just for a moment, before Lance decides he's wasted enough time, sighing dramatically to himself in the mirror, before turning sharply and making his way out into the hall.

_You're going to be nice today, Lance. You're going to walk into the dining room, greet your wonderful, talented team with a 'good morning' and pretend nothing is wrong, because your teammates shouldn't have to deal with your shitty withdrawal symptoms_, Lance thought to himself, straightening out his back as he clambered down the hallway; the bright light of the dining room inching closer with every step. _Today will be a good day, and you'll crack lots of jokes, and-_

"I just don't get what his problem is! It's not even like he's pulling a Keith, no offense, Keith, where he just wears himself out in the training room all day. He doesn't do _anything_, he just stays in his room doing god knows what, contributing _nothing_."

It was almost comical how fast Lance's posture shifted; his hands balling themselves into fists in his pockets, still standing straight, but the uncharacteristic sneer fixing itself on his face, complimenting his venomous-looking gaze. Veronica had once joked that a pissed Lance was just as deadly as any rattlesnake; but instead of the signature rattle, his warning would be evident through silence. With Rachel, it was the opposite: like the growl from a tiger who spots the lost Hunter, and with every step she took towards her prey, it only grew louder, and louder. Lance didn't even try to school his expression into something more neutral as he stepped into the room, and upon seeing the teen himself in question, Pidge's mouth snapped shut audibly. Shiro, who must have been the recipient of this tirade, looked visibly uncomfortable, if not apologetic. 

"Oh, uh, Good morning-"

Before Shiro could even finish his sentence, Lance was shoving his fist out against the kitchen's swinging doors; effectively bursting them open with a loud 'THUNK' that rang through the silent room. Almost everyone flinched, even Keith, who was mirroring Shiro's expression, a bit more disgruntled-looking if anything. Lance only felt a small ping of guilt for cutting Shiro off, but as the doors eventually stilled in their swinging, he scowled at the goo-machine, grabbing a bowl in an unnecessarily rough manner and pushing the nozzle to it's bottom, watching the goo pile up around it until the sludge took up about half the bowl. He grabbed a spoon, shoving it into the bowl with another loud clang, and hunched over as he pushed the kitchen doors back open, fully desiring to retreat to his room in peace-

"Oh! Lance! There you are!"

Allura stood in the center-doorway, looking pleased as a peach; something that made Lance's heart flutter with admiration. Her eyes were wide with surprised glee, and her lips upturned into a small, barely-restrained grin as she locked her gaze on Lance with such tangible adoration, one that looked oh so similar to his own sisters, that Lance nearly dropped his bowl; only barely managing to get a grip after his hands quickly cupped the underside. Before he could even open his mouth, she had bounded over to him, and Lance was struck with the almost irrepressible urge to hug her tightly. 

"Oh my." Allura's smile faded ever so slightly, and her eyebrows curved in worry. "You look exhausted! Did you get enough sleep?" And Lance flushed without meaning to, alarmed by her close-contact in the morning. Distantly, Keith scoffed, shoving his spoon so hard down into his bowl that a loud scraping sound rang out, and Shiro shot his younger brother a disapproving look. Lance shook his head, gaining his bearings and quirking a carefully trimmed eyebrow at her.

"I got plenty of sleep. How else would I look this good?" He grinned, smoothing his hair back with a flourish, much to Allura's amusement. "Not all of us can just stay up all night and still look stunning the next day, Princess. You've got an unfair advantage." Allura laughed lightly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, her gaze as intimidating as ever, but tinged with fondness. "Oh! You are such a dog, Lance!" Allura teased, her voice uncertain as she fumbled with the earth phrase, but Lance appreciated it nevertheless, and he picked up his spoon, shoveling a modest amount of food goo into his mouth and just barely repressing a shudder at the taste.

"Over breakfast, I debriefed the rest of the team about our next mission, so I wanted to make sure you were aware of the details as well." Allura stated; both hands resting behind her back in a relaxed, but confident pose. "We'll be going to a planet and dealing with some Galran political interference, but I wanted it to be known that.." Allura hesitated. "...the planet has some unique traditions and a very different culture...." She trailed off, seemingly flustered. Lance chewed his goo slowly, eyeing her solely out of curiosity, before swallowing.

"And?" He said bluntly; his eyes darting from the rest of the team, who now looked distinctly uncomfortable, back to Allura, who seemed to be choosing her words carefully. 

"Ah... Well... They practice behaviors that are... frowned upon on your home planet, I've been informed." Allura spoke uncertainly, and Lance squinted.

"Allura, hon, you're gonna have to be more specific." Lance popped the spoon out of his mouth after taking another mouthful of goo, and waving it around as he spoke. "That could be anything. Homosexuality, Transgenderism, Speaking a different language outside of English in America, putting ketchup on your fries instead of dipping them individually..."

"I- Um- Fries? I don't-" 

"They do drugs, Lance." Pidge deadpanned, and he visibly stiffened; Shiro's reprimand at Pidge's blunt words flying over his head as he absorbed her words.

_What._

_What the fuck._

Lance feels questioning, surprised gazes land on him, and distantly, he realizes he said that out loud. He must look stupefied right now, because Allura is worrying her hands, looking far too concerned for all the fucked up shit she's seen in her lifetime.

"....Lance? Is that... not ok with you?"

_No, it's not ok. It's not ok because I'm going to have to be around a bunch of people getting high off their asses, and have to deal with the cravings for the next few months, just thinking about it. It's not ok because even if he misses it, he thought that this whole space-shit would be an airtight way to break his druggie habits, even if it's hypocritical to hope so, when he was just begging for anything, something to take the edge off earlier that morning. It's not ok. It's not. It's not-"_

Lance sets his bowl on the table, feeling far more tired than when he woke up, and can feel a million emotions swirling through his head. It seems like Lance took a few seconds too long to respond, because the team's staring, and watching, and _looking_ at him, waiting for his breakdown- 

"That's fine. That's totally fine." Lance nearly chokes, only managing to reel back his voice into something toneless at the last minute. He feels his hands aching to raise to his head; to latch on to his short tufts of hair and tug on them until he can feel something other than this blaring white noise in his head. His voice becomes quieter. "That's fine." 

"If it really makes you uncomfortable-" Shiro starts. 

"I said I'm _fine_!" Lance snaps, his face contorting into something venomous, because even Keith is taken aback when Lance turns to Shiro. It instantly falls when he sees the apologetic and startled look on Shiro's face; hand still loosely gripping his fork, and Lance wraps his arms around himself, already doing an 180 and avoiding their eyes. "Sorry, I- I've got to go put on my suit." Lance says, no louder than a whisper, and he hurries out of the room, if only to allow himself to have a very, very minor meltdown, berating himself for losing his composure. He nearly sprints down the wall down to the hangar, and before he knows it, he's inside of Blue; sweet, beautiful, understanding Blue, who's purring up a storm out of worry as his nails dig into the pockets of his jacket. 

_Jesus christ. Pull yourself together._ He almost tugs at his hair, but before his hands can reach his scalp, Blue sends her firm disapproval, and he returns to tapping his nails uselessly on the arms of his pilot chair, trying to regulate his breathing. His fingers fidget, aching to rummage through his pockets for a pack that isn't there. _You're a Paladin of Voltron, dumbass. Why are you freaking out? So what, you'll have to deal with a couple alien potheads. No biggie; you don't even like weed anymore. It's cool._ He squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees spots. _You're sober. Rachel's sober. Rachel is back on Earth, waiting for you to come home. Then you can do whatever you want._ It's only then does the splitting silence in his brain break, and his breathing regulates to something just a tad bit less 'borderline panic-attack', and he gulps; opening his eyes to the illuminated cockpit, and feeling Blue fret in the back of his head.

_It's ok, girl. I'm ok._ Lance mentally reassures her, and he can feel her worry prevail, but lessen, if only by a bit. Her presence wraps around him like a warm blanket; weighted and just the right temperature, like a fresh breath of air, like a hug from a close friend you rarely see anymore. It's all Lance needs to finally sink into a state of calamity, any panic and hurt seeping out of his skull like he's been flushed out with springwater. The peace brings him back; back to the past, back to home, back to Rachel, as it always does, and Lance is expecting it; letting his lids flutter and then close, basking in the perfection of the memory.

_ **"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, or maybe everyone else is fucked up?" Rachel sing-songed; still grimacing from the acrid taste on her tongue as she lapped up the last few particles of adderall clinging to the tabletop. Lance hasn't even touched his pills yet, too preoccupied with the vapor swirling above his head; white and cloudy in the afternoon sun's rays. His eyes flicker to his sister, though, as soon as the word's leave her chapped, mauve-stained lips, and he blinks blearily in thought before his eyes flicker back.** _

_ **"I think all of us are a little fucked up." Lance admits, folding his legs over the back of the couch, and letting his head loll off it's seats to watch Rachel cut another line; upside down. "What matters is how we're better than everyone."** _

_ **Upon hearing such, Rachel grins; her pearly, braced teeth gleaming in the low light of their shared room, and she hums as another tablet cracks into several chalky, crumbled pieces underneath her perfume bottle. "You're so full of yourself, you know that? But it's true." She bangs the bottle against the table a few more times, and after a moment, she steps away; hands on her bared hips, her sweatpants riding just below, and her top tied into a quirky side-knot right above her left thumb. "Do you wanna do this?" She cocks her hip, turning to Lance and thumbing behind her as if she could've been talking about anything else. Lance blows out another ring of vapor, then shrugs noncommittally, clambering to his feet and eyeing the sloppily crushed powder with only the barest hint of hesitance. ** _

_ _

_ **"Only if you won't." Lance drags his feet towards Rachel; outstretching his hands to card through her bleached hair; frizzy from damage. "Ugh, this is gonna take months to recover. You're so annoying." Lance grumbles, but Rachel only looks pleased. ** _

_ **"That's why I've got my big brother to fix it!" She beams, handing Lance a hastily cut straw over her shoulder, before she steps back and starts tying her hair up in a bun. Lance rolls his eyes; rolling the straw in between his fingers, and pulling a bent gift-card out of his pocket, cutting the lines with precision. ** _

_ _

_ **"Only by 11 minutes, conejito." Lance chimes, and as expected, Rachel tuts.** _

_ **"You say that, and then..." Rachel shakes her head, seemingly over it. "Whatever. After school today, can you do a hair mask on me?" She huffs, eyeing the clock with annoyance, as if it was at fault for displaying '1:27 A.M.' in it's bright green letters. Lance inhales sharply; trying not to sniffle as he feels his nostril cavities plugging up with splenda-tasting powder, relishing the way that it immediately starts dripping down his throat. He exhales.** _

_ **"Only if you do my toenails." Lance stands up to look at her, and she looks elated. The best part is, Lance knows it has nothing to do with the drugs.** _

_ **That's only a bonus.** _

_ **"You're the best, hermano." Rachel laughs; pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, as she twirls around their bedroom as if the stars themselves invited her. Lance tries not to smile.** _

_ **"No; We're the best." Lance says, his lips quirking upwards in betrayal, and he thinks that the light in Rachel's eyes is brighter than any lighter, any star, any sun.** _

_ **You're the best. You're the best. You're the best.** _


End file.
